


Interludes in Himring Preview - Captured

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: Another peek at an in-progress fic, this time featuring Finno surviving some bad shit.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	Interludes in Himring Preview - Captured

There were fingers at his neck, cool and gentle against burning skin. 

_ (His whole body ached from the unnatural position it had been forced into. His wrists were bound together in unyielding iron linked to a heavy chain, pulled forward far enough that his shoulders strained in their sockets. He was half-crouched on the floor, knees folded beneath him, head lolling against outstretched arms. On either side of him, and on the opposite side of his link in the chain, were yet more people, pressed so close he could barely breathe. If he had fallen forward onto his bonds, they would have held him up thanks to how tightly they were packed together. When he could see anything at all, he saw that their eyes were wide and frightened in the dim and dusty light of the cave, and those who had been lucky enough to avoid being stripped of their clothes still glanced up at the steps leading into the camp proper with some semblance of defiance.) _

“Sing for him,” said a voice he did not recognize, and the words were distant and seemed to drift down to his ears from high above where he lay. “He’s going to bleed out.”

_ (Every inch of him was on fire with white-hot pain. He couldn’t remember how many times the whip had cut into his back, or if there had been more than the sting of leather against skin, but in his vague delirium he couldn’t imagine it mattered very much. He knew from how the others surrounding him seemed to press as close as they could that he was warm enough to offer some defense against the mountain air, but he was shivering violently, and there was a chill that had settled into his bones and left him heedless of all else. He wondered if he was dying. He wondered if he would be  _ allowed _ to die.) _

“His fever isn’t breaking,” someone else said, and they sounded frightened, and he wondered who they were talking about. The touches at his neck did not falter, and he realized that something damp and cool lay against his skin now, working its way around the razor-edged collar that sliced into him if he turned his head too quickly. He lay face down on a thin pillow and there was something impossibly soft beneath his arms and torso; he could feel his chest rising and falling with each agonizing breath. His back was aching and blazing and shredded, each bruise and cut and pain running together into an incapacitating misery that left him helpless to do anything but endure it silently. His wrist and ankle throbbed, making him sick, and when the hand binding up the collar -  _ his _ collar - in sweet-smelling softness lifted up his head, it felt strangely light. Something brushed against his face and jaw, sending shivers down his spine; he thought it was his hair, but surely, his hair was longer.

_ (The knife had been silver when it sliced through braid after braid after braid, each one falling to the sandy floor of the chamber as the air filled with softly mocking promises of what was to come. _ Your hair is an adornment you will have to earn,  _ he was told, _ once you have demonstrated that you have learned your place and your duties.  _ What those duties  _ were _ was left unsaid, but he could guess.) _

“There’s nothing more you can do here,  _ hîr-nîn,” _ a third voice said, and the hand holding his face flinched violently. “You have to let us work.”

_ (They had all heard the commotion outside their prison, but the sounds were dulled by distance and the thick walls of the cave. It was nothing, surely, or else it was one of the endless squabbles that seemed to arise when orcs were left to their own devices. It meant nothing, and when it was over they would be forced to make the march from this mountain to the gates of Angamando.) _

“No,” answered whoever was holding his head. He knew he ought to know that voice, deep and rasping and defiant and terrified all at once, but the memory of it escaped him even as something in his chest rose up and wound itself about the sound. “No, I’m staying here.”

_ (The crude wooden door at the top of the stairs flew apart, breaking into splinters that fell onto stone and packed earth and left the entrance to their prison hanging on its hinges and on the padlock. The Sun streamed into the room, gold and furious and blazing, slicing through the dust, but when its warmth fell onto his face he shivered and gasped in air and roused himself long enough to open his eyes. He was half-blinded by the light, but he could see someone standing at the top of the stairs, with gleaming gold silhouetting and illuminating shoulders and fur-lined cloak and gleaming plate armor. Whoever it was seemed to be crowned in fire, with the Sun striking red hair and turning it to flame. Red hair. Red hair, and eyes that burned silver. All else fell away, even the bonds on his wrists.) _

“Then make yourself useful, if you’ll beg my pardon,” the third voice said. “Hold him still. This will hurt quite a lot.”

_ (He said nothing, staring up at the figure who had not moved since breaking down the door, but he supposed nothing needed to be said. There was shock on the face before him, and anger, and grief, and fury, all intermingled into a look that sparked up his own blood and left him trembling with anticipation for something he could not name. But no sooner had his own brown eyes met the blazing silver ones than the pain rose up to drown him again, and he shuddered violently enough to set the chain shaking. His head slumped forward again, and he knew no more.) _

Yet more white-hot fire poured itself into his back, melting through the nausea and the fog that lay heavy over his thoughts. He tensed, moaning softly; he was answered with a whispered assurance that he barely understood and a gentle kiss pressed to the top of his head. But even this was not enough to keep him bound to consciousness, and when another pain settled in to scour rot and infection from his flesh, he found himself dragged back into darkness and dream.


End file.
